Here I Am
by Ophelia1973
Summary: Sherlock and John consider their lives without the other after Sherlock's fall. The two are both painfully aware of the undertone their relationship had, but sometimes it's not so easy to just show up after three years and say, here I am. - Kind of a corny summary but give it a shot? I have nice spelling and grammar so there's that.
1. In Which Sherlock Wonders and John Waits

Sherlock wondered. He aligned the facts in his head, not for the first time, and attempted to find the underlying reason for John's behavior. He glanced at the scrap of paper the girl from the homeless network had dug out of her pocket during their meeting. _Visits cemetery daily, still. Still works at surgery. Hasn't left London except once to see sister. _He added these facts to the others already in his head from another meeting with another informant—_Dating brunette. Always sleeps at own apartment. Avoids Baker Street. Sees landlord rarely. _He had at least six possibilities but none seemed to _fit_.

Sherlock scoffed at his own irrationality.

* * *

John awoke with a groan. He still had at least another hour before his alarm went off, he could just feel it, and yet he knew that nothing would will his body back into sleep. In the watery dawn light leaking in through the blinds, he entertained his tired mind with wild fantasies of hastily packing his bags and catching the next train to anywhere. Just get up and leave, and forget the past few years had ever happened. But the thoughts didn't last long before the pedantic and painfully realistic voice in the back of his head reminded him that no, that would never work—he knew he could never just disappear. Not like Sherlock did. He'd like to say that he could never do that to his girlfriend and to his practice, but no, it wasn't that—he just didn't want to. He felt tethered to London, to this place that Sherlock had once been such a part of. He needed to be in a place where his mind could trick itself into thinking his former flatmate could just pop up anytime, always around the corner, one step ahead of him. It comforted him.

John turned over and buried his head under the pillow. He knew he had to stop this grieving, this constant waiting for something he knew deep within would never happen. It was all taking a toll on him—the lack of sleep, of friends, of deviations from his sad routine. They had tried—Greg, Molly, even Harriet had tried getting him to move on. And for them, he had done his best. He kept up appearances—dating women to distract himself, going to work every day without fail—he did it all. But for Sherlock, he hadn't moved far in either respects. He feared moving on too far lest he forget the man who had changed his life. And, though he didn't want to admit it, he hoped Sherlock was watching him and seeing that after all these months, he was still loyal, still his.

* * *

He did one more glance around the small room he had been cooped up in for the past few months. Save for a few idle knife marks on the bedside table, there would be no trace of him once he left. He had packed away his belongings into his small battered suitcase, folded away everything neatly just the way John had once shown him. _John. John with his stupid folded everything-even-socks, his unceasing attempts to clean up after Sherlock. The rows they used to have over the state of the kitchen and the bathroom, the way John would flush when Mrs. Hudson would call these rows 'domestics'. The way John would flush when he looked Sherlock in the eye, the way he would do it anyway, and the way Sherlock would have to still his beating heart. _Sherlock would never forget.

He wasn't nearly as stupid about these sorts of things as everyone seemed to believe. He wasn't a robot, he wasn't a _machine_, he felt things, too, and he knew what they meant, what's more. The difference between him and everyone was just that he had a policy of ignoring these things, these hindrances.

He knew what it meant, to be always thinking of John. To always be…hurting, in a sense. For John. He knew so exquisitely, intimately, and painfully well what it meant to care for someone. And this was why he couldn't do it, couldn't go back home and carry on his life. Moriarty had capitalized on his friendship with John, and Sherlock refused to let that happen again, refused to acknowledge what might happen if the next maniac knew the true magnitude of his feelings towards John.

This was why, he told himself firmly. This was why he had to run. It _wasn't_ fear of going back. It was a need to go forward. This was why.

* * *

This was his peace. Tea-time in the cold surgery by his favorite window.

John wondered when he first realized he was in love with his flatmate. He struggled to remember—it hadn't been a big, momentous moment, like in films. He thought of a smile, a quick, secret smile just for him, that stuck with him for days. In the aftermath, he remembered sinking into it like you would a bath—just a simple, _Oh. I love him._ And that was it. He carried it around with him for years. It just became a part of him, like his height and the way he didn't much like peppermint. It didn't change much, not really. He never let it change the way he interacted with Sherlock, he refused to take any chances with that.

John enjoyed this—painfully dredging up ever possible memory of the man he once knew—he liked forcing himself to remember that Sherlock was real, he had been there, and had never been untrue. He enjoyed his pain, enjoyed worrying at it like you would a cold sore until it throbbed. He liked losing himself in his vast want—because he did want. He wanted their life back so incredibly much sometimes he could barely understand how he woke up and didn't run back to the old flat every day. He just wanted to be in their old dusty apartment, stepping over Sherlock's books and papers and shoes strewn about, he wanted to be back in the cluttered kitchen moving about each other, he wanted to run behind Sherlock in his ridiculous flapping coat. John didn't even want him back to tell him how he felt, he never even let himself imagine what it'd be like to hold the taller man's wiry frame. Just being together would be enough.

* * *

Sherlock perched uncomfortably in his cramped seat on the train, straining to see out of the dirty window and attempting to ignore the snoring man beside him. He conjured up the list of facts he had on John's current life to occupy his mind, and settled in for the train ride. The lack of sleep and constant worrying must have taken their toll on his usually sharply honed mind, however, and within minutes the gentle rocking of the train had lulled him into that foggy land between sleep and consciousness.

_ The obvious. As usual, Sherlock, you always prefer to see complications where there are none. _Mycroft's response to the issue of John floated into Sherlock's head.

Sherlock knew what the obvious was. He just refused to let himself believe it.

He was afraid.


	2. In Which John Breaks

It was on days like this that John hurt the most. Holidays, Sherlock's birthday, the anniversary of his jump—John handled those just fine, with his typical quiet determination. But days like this—the soft rain, the perfect silence, as if all of London felt like staying in with tea and a good book—these just dug their claws into his heart and stayed put. He couldn't stand the peace. It brought his mind back to the old apartment and the soft lulls in action they would find themselves in between cases. These were the days that John could almost feel Sherlock there, just there in his comfy, worn armchair, just there moving behind him in the kitchen, just there humming quietly to himself at his microscope. He felt like a child, small, lost and alone on these days—irrationally inconsolable, the pain beat ceaselessly upon him.

It was on one of these days that he felt an uncharacteristic spark of anger, a sharp push from behind that had him stumbling out of this grave he'd been in since Sherlock jumped. Since Sherlock _left_ him here, knowing full well that John's life would never be the same. The anger ran through him like fire, all the injustices, big and small, felt over the past few years pricking at him like needles. Why was it fair that he had to remain alone and broken—John the _bachelor_, the sad little tin soldier, forced to be steadfast and stoic and passive—why was it fair? Especially when Sherlock got to—

John knew he wasn't supposed to entertain that idea. His therapist had done everything she could to suppress this idea, this silly little hope. But it remained. He knew Sherlock was somewhere out there. And it pissed him the fuck off. Spying that stupid Union Jack pillow from the old flat, John let his rage flow as he bellowed and ripped its seams. It fell flatly to the floor. Not good enough—the mug on the counter would be much more satisfactory, he thought briefly, before the small room was filled with sounds of smashing china and clattering books and pens and shoes and anything within reach. By the time his anger had left abated, he was hot and panting as sobs burst through his chest.


	3. In Which John Believes

Mycroft closed his eyes in silent frustration as there was another rap on his office door, once again interrupting the few minutes he devoted to his tea each day. His assistant's small, dark head peered around the heavy door and he waved her in.

"Sir, I was going to wait until tomorrow, but you did make it clear that this was to be handled quickly and without issue should any problem arise," she said, by way of an apology. Nudging a thick file towards him, she stated: "He's trying to reach you, sir".

* * *

John lowered himself into his favorite armchair and sat down to wait, a small moment of stillness in what had otherwise been a tempestuous week. He adjusted the pillow behind him, gently sipped at his tea, and watched his mobile as it sat innocently on the coffee table in front of him, waiting patiently for the show that Mycroft would inevitably provide.

John's fit of rage the previous week had, in fact, been put to some use—like a fire that burns all the old growth so that new life may take root, his anger gave way to a new idea, a new end to work for throughout his dreary days. He was going to find Sherlock. The more thought he put to it, the more discrepancies he found in his memories of the days just after Sherlock's jump—little things here and there that let him, finally, entertain the hopes he had previously kept shut in the dark.

As the clock ticked steadily behind him, almost as if it was counting down, John smirked into his tea. He could feel the answers he had been so painfully awaiting nearly within his reach now. After spending the whole week keeping a very high profile—starting with plastering '_I believe in Sherlock Holmes'_, and ending in getting arrested for spray-painting 'Sherlock Lives' on a major London bridge, must to Lestrade's dismay—John could almost feel Mycroft's irritation from miles away.

John's smirk bloomed into a wide grin and his phone began to vibrate on the coffee table.


End file.
